cold coffee magazine issue 1

8/14/2019 Cold Coffee Magazine Issue 1

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Brian Porter’s tenacious

work ethic and writing skills

have proven to be a winningcombination. In an exclusive

interview with Rachel

Brower, Brian talks about

his stellar novel and how he

found success.

Editors Pick

A Collection of poems

by some of Cold Cof-

fee’s best poets.

Twenty novels written

by members of Cold

Coffee Books.

M A

G

A

Z

I N E

YonderBy Ben Larkin

A Short Story about a

father’s undying love

for his daughter.

Cold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold Coffee

“Your manuscript is both good and original, but the part that is

good is not original and the part that is original is not good.”

-- Samuel JohnsonNO. 1

P L A G I A R I S M

Editor and Columnist

RachelBlackbirdsong

shares her thoughts

on a literaryinjustice.

Words

Words

Words

Some of the finer

points that help good

writers become great.

J.M. Doslobos



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Page 12

Cold Coffee Magazine is a quarterly publication produced by members of the Cold Coffee Writ-

ing Community. It is dedicated to the voice of promising writers everywhere, writers who might

otherwise go unheard.

Each issue features an interview with a successful author, a short story, a number of poems, a list

of twenty books found in the CC Bookstore and several helpful articles on writing. All work pub-

lished in CCM was submitted by members of the CC writing community

(www.coldcoffee.ning.com).

Those writers interested in seeing their work published in CCM need only join the CC writing

community and read the submission process. All who submit will be considered but not everyone

who submits will be published. As compensation, those writers whose work is published willreceive an invitation to the online web site where each issue of CCM is produced.

Advertisers interested in having their company or their products represented in CCM or on the

CC community web site may go to the CC community and submit your interest to David Price,

creator of Cold Coffee.

Magazine Staff David Price – Owner, Designer, Chief Editor

Rachel Brower – Poetry Submissions Editor

Shannon Morrow – Design Specialist

ContributorsThe Perfectionists – Proof Reading and Editing

Members of the Cold Coffee writer community

Flikr community of photographers

CCM is available through Magcloud.com

What’s in Your Cup?



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Cold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold Coffee Words, Words, Words by J.M. Doslobos

“… We as writers have our brains are cluttered with vo-cabulary and punctuation rules we learned in third grade.”

Yonder by Ben Larkin

A Short Story about a father’s undying love for his daugh-ter.

What is Cold Coffee? by David Price

The most interactive and quickly growing writercommunity in the world.

Plagiarism by Rachel Blackbird

Editor and Columnist Rachel Blackbirdsong shares herthoughts on a literary injustice.

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15

17

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M A G A Z I N EM A G A Z I N E M A G A Z I N EM A G A Z I N E Interview With Novelist Brian Porter

In this interview Brian talks about his stellar novel andhow he found success.

Editors Choice Poetry

Cold Coffee Magazine accepts submissions from mem-bers of the Cold Coffee Writers Community and then

chooses the best for publication.

Editors Choice Books

Cold Coffee Magazine picks and features books mem-bers have displayed at Cold Coffee Books. These arethis issue’s picks.

Featured Writer Candice Geary

Candice is a glowing example of the blossoming talentone finds among the members of the Cold Coffee WriterCommunity.

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6

‘Words,

Words

WordsThe comment of course is

Hamlet’s response to a question

about what he is reading. When

asked, he seems to indicate thatthe comment is meaningless.

This is a situation we face

every time we sit down at the

computer for word processing.

Most of us, more’s the pity, no

longer use typewriters.

The pity here is that when us-

ing a typewriter, especially if

you write as a profession, you

have to think, think about the

words, before punching thekeys. With a computer it’s sim-

ple, too simple. The machine

will even go through your copy,

check spelling, rephrase sen-

tences and, if you aren’t alert,

may change the meaning of

what you have written because

the machine has a limited vo-

cabulary, and no brain.

However, writers, even this

one, have brains. If we are

readers as well as writers — andwe had better be — our brains

are cluttered with vocabulary

and punctuation rules we

learned in third grade. Most of

us who would someday want to

be writers, would fill our conver-

sations with what Robert A.

Heinlein in one of his books

called “‘intestinal’ Latin jaw-

breakers” as opposed to “the

gutty Germanic words.”

An old newsroom incident

comes to mind. The people had

better be nameless, but:

Our police reporter returned

from his rounds and set about

writing up the notes he had col-

lected from the police, the sher-

iff’s department and the state

patrol. These included mostly

petty crimes and vehicle acci-

dents.

I was slaving away at my desk

doing rewrites or something —

this was years and years ago —

when suddenly the night editor

who, at his mildest, was an iras-

cible (oops, one of those Latin jawbreakers) old tyrant, and

shouted at the police reporter,

“Jack, what the hell are lacera-

tions and contusions?”

The reporter responded, with-

out even turning to face the edi-

tor, “How the hell do I know?

You’ve got a dictionary.” Within

seconds, Jack also had one,

right between his shoulder

blades. He grabbed the book,

stood and glared at the editor.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Cuts and bruises,” the editor

growled. “Cuts and bruises.

Cuts and bruises.”

“The police report said contu-

sions and laceration.”

“Cuts and bruises.”

We were being taught to write

clearly and simply.

The problem with a word like

“obfuscate” is that it does. That

is, it may confuse, which is a

simpler term with the same

meaning. The fact that a word

like obfuscate exists, doesn’t

mean you have to use it.

Going a step further:

The hero in our story is looking

up at the blue sky. What? Not

only what? But why? The sky

is blue unless it is cloudy, foggy,

gray (smoggy), or reddened by

the rising or setting sun. If the

sky is other than blue there is

some point in mentioning it.

Tight, clear prose is or shouldbe the goal, even if the writer

for some reason wants a lei-

surely pace.

And speaking of pace:

As news writers, we were taught

to be terse (tight) for ease and

speed in reading. Short sen-

tences were the rule. Descrip-

tions were accepted only if

needed and were part of an on-

site report, for example a seri-ous accident, a fire or some-

thing really serious like a mur-

der. A little “color” was accept-

able, but only if it added to the

drama.

Hmm. Drama. Unless a football

game or something like it was

involved “drama” was another

no-no. Normally, if drama was

involved, it was supplied by a

witness.

But for fiction and often nonfic-

tion, dramatic elements can be

very important. But you really

can’t create drama. You have

only words, and words used

sparingly can create drama:

elation, sorrow, fear. But (there

are a lot of ‘buts’ here):

“It was terrifying!” is just a

statement. You have to, as

writer, supply the terror. Re-

member: you have only words.

You must create a situation that

is terrifying. To wit:

When he made her kneel she

began shaking. He walked

around, rubbing the muzzle of

the pistol gently across the back

of her neck. She gasped, twist-



7

ing the hands bound behind her,

her eyes wide and seeming out

of focus as he moved around in

front of her, letting her see the

pistol. Her eyes, wet and drip-

ping, opened wider as she

looked at the gun and then at

the man who smiled and said,

“Goodbye bitch.” She closedher eyes as he put the pistol

almost against her face. She

took a deep breath and opened

her mouth and pistol banged,

sounding loud and flat. And she

fell, flat. Her legs twitched, but

she was dead with a small hole

in her forehead and cavity in the

back.

Some may not find this terri-

fying, but it is intended as an

example, however poor. It’sintended to show just what sorts

of things you can do with words.

Saying the one-year-old was

happy with the kitten is a little

flat. How about (about baby):

When the kitten stopped in front

of her and rubbed a velvety

head against baby’s knee she

gurgled and bounced and

clapped her hands.

When I was training peopleor attempting to, I would sug-

gest that they try to describe for

example a red sky without spe-

cifically mentioning color or the

sky, or to write (describe) blue

with out mentioning the word

color or the color. It can be

done and is a fun exercise.

Spelling is important, and the

spellers on most computers are

a little limp. There are too

many English words that sound

alike. Don’t trust it: Consult

Webster. Among things I have

found very useful over they

years are crossword puzzles.

Don’t misunderstand here.

Crosswords won’t do much for

your vocabulary but they help

develop the ability to find words

in you own storehouse, your

brain. Sometimes crossword

puzzle definitions are inexact

(often), sometimes wrong until

you get down to the least com-

mon definition and sometimes,

too, words appear to be mis-

spelled until you get down into

the “alternate spelling” part of the dictionary definition. For

me, they help, along with the

morning coffee, to get my brain

moving. And sometimes you

will find alternative definitions,

which often are archaic. Most

daily newspapers supply daily

crossword puzzles and of course

there are crossword puzzle

books.

And there is reading. We all

know that. I assume we wouldnot be writers if we were not

first readers. Leaving out

schoolbooks and assigned read-

ing, I suspect most of us during

our school days read a lot of fic-

tion, and some nonfiction, as-

suming we read at all. Televi-

sion has drastically changed

reading habits. So have school

curricula changed.

Some of the losses in educa-tion at all levels include poetry.

I don’t mean the blank verse

which passes for poetry, rather

the older poetry which included

blank verse as in Shakespeare,

but especially poetry that was

rhymed and metered.

For some reason, not under-

standable to me, poetry that is

rhymed is considered inferior,

even though a good rhymed and

metered piece is far harder toproduce. Still, it is pleasant and

often exhilarating to read, or, as

in Poe, can be difficult and an-

noying.

Believe it or not, meter in fic-

tion, if not overdone, can be a

very valuable tool. In fact,

whether deliberately or not,

much serious writing is me-

tered, simply because we tend

to meter our speech. For some

reason, we tend to speak in

iambic pentameter.

But I’m talking about words,

descriptive words, words with

emotion, with temperature. You

don’t have to spend all yourtime reading, for example,

Shakespeare’s — or anyone

else’s — sonnets to see the way

traditional poetry can produce

temperature, emotion, mood.

Robert Service:

Service is readable, under-

standable and normally quite

entertaining. Almost everyone

has heard of the “Shooting of

Dan McGrew.” When I wasyoungster it was popular camp-

fire fare. However Service’s

poem most frequently antholo-

gized is “Young Fellow My Lad.”

Service in his writings called

himself a “mere maker of

verse.” Perhaps that was all

but, like Kipling (and many oth-

ers) the language and the beat

of his verse can be very excit-

ing, uplifting or depressing.

Even when depressing, the “music” draws us on.

Service could even extract

beauty from the battlefield:

Beside the dying and the

dead,

Where rocket green and

rocket red,

In trembling pools of poising

light,

With flowers of flame festoon

the night.

Or in another vein make it as

ugly as it really is:

… And you yourself would

mutter when



8

You took the things that once

were men

And sped them through that

zone of hate

To where the dripping sur-

geons wait.

Perhaps — I certainly hope

not — no one will want a novelor especially a nonfiction book in

rhymed or even blank verse, but

a sound grasp of poetry and its

language and can greatly im-

prove a writer’s, any writer’s

output.

Too frequently when we

write, especially if we’re strug-

gling, we don’t listen to our

words, we forget about mood,

temperature and color. Yet in

our lives, unless we close our-

selves inside some light proof,

sound proof shelter, we are sur-

rounded by those things.

You find them in stories. If

you are writer of stories and you

feel the music and the color and

the temperature, then writing is

less of a chore and will be better

writing.

There is one more thing, per-

haps the most important thing I

have learned or been taught

about writing; and it was pain-

ful. It involved my first writing

assignment in college English:

I was, as are many fresh-

men, pretty full of myself. After

all, I was a top tenner in high

school, at the head of my

classes in a number of subjects.

I had helped other students.

My magnificent paper came

back with a pretty good grade

but with large red hand-written

notation: “If you can’t be very,

very clever, don’t be clever at

all.”

It hurt, but it was true. I

won’t say I’ve never violated

that dictum, but I usually catch

myself when I do and fortu-

nately for many years had

someone who would catch it if I

didn’t. But it is a potential foi-

ble for all writers, especially new

ones. I would say for inexperi-

enced writers, but all of us re-

main learners.

By: J. M. Doslobos



9

My world could have beenseen as small by some. It was

me and Annette on our littlefarm, a father and a daughter in

a simple two-bedroom house.Yet it didn’t feel small. The

spread of the valley and the

height of the pines had nothingto do with that estimation. An-nette was enough for me, and I

reckoned I was enough for her.

I never caught her staring intospace searching for something

beyond the tree line. The lack of

a mother or siblings didn’t daunt

her. Annette was the only childof my wife, who passed while

giving birth. My daughter fig-

ured having one parent was theway it was supposed to be. You

see what I’m saying. The focus

was never on what she didn’thave.

And as I recollect, there was a

swell amount she didn’t have.We were out in the boonies, onthe ranch my pa owned before a

stampede overtook him in ’42.Fifteen years later society ain’tany closer to us. If you scaledthe tallest tree and used its

highest branch as a lookoutpoint, you’d see nary a chimneyor water tower. Heck, we ain’t

even got a telephone. This is

back country, and people wholive here don’t live here because

it’s fashionable or even reputa-

ble. It’s something you’re born

into, and if you don’t like it, you

pack up and head for morepopulated areas. To us, thereain’t no such thing as safety in

numbers. Safety is out here,away from the crowd. It’s that

feeling that someone bigger hasalways got His eye on things,

and since there ain’t so many

people, He’s able to focus rightin on you.

So it was me and Annette, our

horses—Ritzy and Willow, and a

mite over a hundred head of cattle. Most of my time was

taken up by the stock, but I let

Annette choose what part shewanted to play in helping. Some

afternoons she’d be out in the

field with me, not so muchworking as keeping me com-pany. Other days she stayed at

the house, cleaning up things in

ways I never taught her. Thatwas her mother coming out, I’msure. Every once in a while

she’d go roaming with Melissa,the only other girl her agewithin traveling distance. I

missed her those days, but I

never asked her to stay. Tomake her stay when she didn’twant to would only make the

times she was here less special.

And just about every day was

special in my book.

To say I loved the child is like

saying the Grand Canyon’s ahole in the ground. Words don’t

cover it. All fathers know some-where inside that anything that

matters nearly always crossespaths with their daughters’ hap-

piness. But I knew it in everybone of my body. She wasn’t a

part of my life—she was my life,

plain and simple, which is partof the reason I can’t compre-

hend why God made her up andleave.

Annette left last summer, yousee, to go yonder with her

mother. Her departing hap-pened in the snap of a bone—her spine, in this case. I found

her myself, though not withoutconsiderable searching. She’dgone horseback riding withMelissa, and they had ventured

back over to the ranch of

Melissa’s family. The ParcherRanch.

You could say they were our

next-door neighbors, but theylived a good five miles away.Most times Melissa came over

here, which her parents neverseemed to mind. I know now Ishould’ve made them play o’er

here every time, one of the

many things I loathe in hind-sight. Melissa’s a good kid, al-ways has been, but her parents

are as shiftless as they come.Daniel Parcher marks the timeon his porch, his feet propped

on the railing, swigging away on

his putrid homemade whiskey.The grass is always high in theirgarden, and it occurred to me

more than once that ten- year-old Melissa probably does mostof the work that gets done

around there, not by choice ei-

ther. That’s a frighteningthought, but as Annette onlyknew me, Melissa’s only known

the life handed to her, and she

didn’t know to be angry aboutit.



10

These days, I make it my job

to be angry for her.

But I’m rambling. Annette and

Melissa set out early that morn-

ing, Annette on Willow andMelissa on the one old mare theParcher family owned. I don’t

remember if I told Annette to be

back by dusk, but I knew I did-n’t need to. She knew my short-

hand well enough, and I suspect

she shared an inkling of myfeelings about Daniel Parcher.Mary Parcher would be there at

least. I didn’t know Melissa’s

mother well, but from the fewtimes I’d seen her she seemedat least a hair more cognizant of

her surroundings than her hus-band. She had a quiet, fragileway about her, like someone

searching for a match in thedark. I don’t know if she everstopped searching. She ran off with some other fellow about a

week after Annette’s depart-ing—yonder in a different direc-tion, I suppose.

That day went by like anyother. I never thought to worryfor Annette. She was a good

three years older than Melissa,

and had more common sense

than the entire Parcher lineagecombined. When dusk set in, I

didn’t think much of it. Annette

must’ve gotten a late start back.I knew she’d explain it in a solid

way the moment she got home.

Maybe Melissa’d be with her,needing a place to hunker downfor the night. If Daniel Parcher

was having one of his moon-

shine parties, that wouldn’t besurprising. That girl had sense

to know when she needed to

steer wide of her papa. I’ll giveher a nod for that.

Soon stars were pricking thesky, and I wondered if I should

ride out to meet them. Annetteknew how to travel at night, but

maybe Melissa wasn’t used to it.I didn’t want Annette saddled

with a long journey and a little

girl’s sense of safety. So I

started for the shed, whistling toRitzy to let her know I was com-

ing. Then Willow wandered intothe path, her saddle as empty

as my suddenly hollow stomach.

Maybe at that point I knew. I

don’t remember. The rest of

that night is a smudge to me. Atthe time, the night and the

search seemed eternal. Willow

n’ I skinned out to the Parcherstead, and then all through itsovergrown paths, calling out her

name. I remember thinking that

infernal sun was never gonnarear up. At one point I passedthat doggery of a house the

Parchers called home, thoughtabout calling on them, but did-n’t. Melissa’s horse was bedded

down in the stable, which meantMelissa was bedded down in herstable, too. Calling on themwould only waste time and get

Melissa worrying. I headed backinto the brush, having neverconsidered asking Daniel

Parcher to help search. Some

things aren’t options.

Dawn had barely broken

through the trees when I found

her, her body sitting awkward

against a juniper trunk, hereyes staring dully into the rusty

light. She looked like a doll

waiting for someone to comeand play. I assumed without

question that Annette had been

on her way back when the acci-dent occurred. The fact that shewas on the wrong end of the

Parcher tract didn’t so much as

pierce my thoughts. Annettewas dead, and I was filled with

equal amounts exhaustion and

despair.

No, take that back. I had more

despair.

It’s strange how certain mo-

ments bring memories back to

the surface, bring ‘em up so fastthey don’t quite feel like memo-ries at all. More like re-

experiences, if that makes any

dern sense. As I crouched onthe ground, staring into An-

nette’s once vibrant but nowhauntingly still face, such a

thing came over me.

I was back in our house, a

year or more earlier, and I was

reading the Good Book aloud,like I did every night. Annette

was there, too, listening while

she did the dishes. It’d be easyto think Annette did the dishesso she didn’t have to listen to

me prattle, especially if you’ve

ever heard me stumbling clum-sily over every thee and thou Icame across. She was listening,

though. Her moss green eyeskept coming back to me, andthey were wide with wonder.

Another benefit of staying so farfrom other kids her age, Iguess. She didn’t know to bebored.

And so I read. “Forbear to cry,make no mourning for the dead,bind the tire of thine head upon

thee, and put on thy shoes uponthy feet, and cover not thy lips,and eat not the bread of men.

So I spake unto the people in

the morning: and at even my

wife died; and I did in the morn-ing as I was commanded.”

I paused to sip my tea, not

really contemplating what I hadread. Annette had, though, and

she posed a question.

“Pa?” she asked softly. “Did

you ever hate me for killingMama?”

My head jolted up so quick I

nearly forgot the mug on my

lips. Some tea sloshed my chin,but I kept my grip. “Annie,” I

said, unable to hide my shock.

“Why would you go thinking athing like that?”

She shrugged and turned back

to the dishes. “I wouldn’t haveblamed you if you had.” Hervoice was strangely calm, as if



11

this were a fact she long ago

came to accept.

I rose from my chair in ahurry. “Now you listen,” I said,

suddenly angry for some reasonunknown to me. “Your mama’s

passing was not your fault. Youhave no right to bear such a

burden on your shoulders.” She turned then, and I was

surprised to see a faint whisp of a smile on her face. “I know,Pa,” she said, as if it were the

most obvious thing in the world.

“It’s not like I had a choice as tohow I was born. But still, youhad to send your grief some-

where. I just reasoned itmight’ve come my way.”

“Well, it didn’t,” I sputtered,

crossing my arms. “I never letsuch a thought even form in myhead.”

That faint smile disappeared

from her face, and Annette’seyes turned serious. “Did you

blame God then? Did you blameHim for taking Mama yonder?”

That caught me off-guard, and

I think she knew it. The angerfell from my face as I pondered.

“No,” I said, trying to retain myfatherly posture. “I never

blamed God. That’s the easyway out. You see, in the end

God don’t kill people. People

kill…”

I broke off, realizing what I

was saying. Annette nodded and

went back to the dishes. Itouched the back of her armdesperately. “It really wasn’t

your fault, sweetie. It weren’t

no one’s fault. Truth be told, Inever thought about it. I did mybest not to think about it, in

fact. Those thoughts only end inpain, and I had a new baby tosee to.”

She nodded again withoutturning to me. The silence hungover us like rain clouds waiting

to burst. I pulled my hand

away, knowing the conversation

was over. We could keep picking

at it if we chose, but there’d benothing new to say. I turnedand made my way to my bed-

room. What stopped me was her

sweet voice.

“You’re a good man, Pa,” she

said, and I could hear the smileon her face. “Not that I’ve

known many. Still, you’re a

good one--one of the best, Ireckon.”

Those words ran through my

head like a flood, and then Iwas back in the forest again,staring at moss green eyes with

no light in them. The eyes of mydaughter.

I buried her the next evening.

Some people came over,brought some food, tried tokeep me company. I didn’t ask

for them, but once I phoned the

sheriff to tell him the situationword got around. Old ladiesstarted showing up with casse-

roles. Widow Stevenson brought

the same potato salad she madeafter my wife died. I don’t mindsaying their presences unnerved

me. All these people with God intheir hearts, trying to let meknow I was loved. The problem

was they all looked like strang-

ers to me. Sure I recognizedtheir faces, but I didn’t knowanything about ‘em other than

their cooking abilities. And theysure didn’t know me. No andheck no. I was merely their no-

ble cause for a day. I stom-

ached their food and their com-passion, but Lord was I gratefulwhen the last one sputtered out

of my driveway.

The Parchers never showed upat all.

Weeks passed like nails on

slate. Every moment without

her wrenched my insides. But Iwasn’t allowing for despair. In-stead, I threw myself into

chores. The cows became my all

-consuming task. I spent most

of each day among them, fuss-

ing over any blessed thing Icould think to fuss over. I onlycame in the house to fall into

bed. The indoor parts quickly

fell into a state of befuddleddesperation, but the outdoor

parts looked better than they

ever had. The loose boards inthe fence were either mended orreplaced. The leaning mailbox

had a new post and a better

hole to prop it in. The yardaround the house had nary a

scrap of clutter in it.

Another thing left on my list of

time-passers was the stable.

One of the swinging stall doorshad hung by a single hinge for

the better part of two years.

And when was the last time Iraked out the old hay? It wastime, and I was more than will-

ing. Every task took my mind

away from that one big thoughtlooming at the edge of my be-ing. I’d heard the thought in bits

and pieces. Sometimes I even

shook my head to keep it fromcompleting. I knew it, though.

‘Course I knew.

How could I not? When the

tasks ran out, so would my life.

You probably think I mean sui-

cide, but you’re only half right.The truth was I never planned athing. I had a scattershot rifle in

the closet, but I wasn’t about touse it on myself. Maybe I’venever been the most sanctified

of men, but I had faith enough

to know that Annette still had aview from whichever perch shewas on. And I couldn’t stomach

the thought of her watching meblow myself apart. No, deathwas coming, but not from the

barrel of my rifle. There were

other kinds of death, kinds thattook more than a quick flash of thunder, the patient kinds, the

slow kinds. That was what I

had. The slow death had startedin the pit of my soul. I felt it in



12

there, quietly gnawing its way

to the surface. Maybe cattle andbusy work were slowing it down

some, but that well I was draw-ing from—the well of purpose—

was gonna run dry eventually.And that gnawing in my gut

would get a whole lot worse

when it did. Maybe I’d never

hurt myself, but I was rapidlylosing the gumption to help my-self, too. I saw the future com-

ing, one where I’d wake onemorning unable to crawl out of

bed, or eat, or even drink. I’d

be trapped in a quarry of grief,and the final straw would be myability to breathe. The air in me

would go flat, simply because I

didn’t have the will to keep itmoving.

But I wasn’t going to thinkabout that. I had a stable to seeto.

Maybe I need to pull the reignson my storytelling. You see, itgets a mite strange from here.

And though I don’t mind telling

it, I ain’t about to suffer any eyerolls or mocking sighs. I don’tcare if you think me crazy, so

long as you don’t try to convinceme it didn’t happen. I know itdid, know it the same way I

know when one of my steers is

sick. I’m a granger, and I cantell when something’s contrary.My story comes from height-

ened awareness, not the lackthereof. Just so’s you know.

‘Cause that saddle didn’t crawl

up on Willow by itself.

I don’t know how long I playedwith that rickety door before I

noticed. Eventually I did, be-cause I dropped the hammerinto the hay and watched for a

spell, as if expecting it to move.There was Willow, her gray coat

almost blue in the early morninglight. And there was Annette’s

saddle on Willow’s back, beltstrapped around her belly, stir-

rups dangling in the light

breeze.

For a moment I wondered if Ihad left it there all that time,

even though I knew it weren’t

possible. Maybe I did all my rid-ing on Ritzy, but I tended toWillow, too. I usually let her

roam one of the fields for a

good part of each day. Iwould’ve noticed a saddle hang-

ing on her back.

As I thought about it, I re-membered taking the saddle off.I remembered how hard that

simple action was. Taking off the saddle kind of brought it allhome for me, forced me to open

my mind to the truth. Horrible

thoughts swirled through myhead as my fingers wrapped

around that stiff leather. Had asnake jumped at Willow? Or dida low branch knock Annetteplum off? These were answers

I’d never be privy to, and I think

that was the first moment I evertruly wondered. Was the BigBoss really watching us out

here? Or were we as alone asthe townspeople thought wewere? I wasn’t mad at Him yet,

or at least it didn’t feel like I

was. But the confusion inside

was dreadfully stifling. This did-n’t feel like the way it was sup-

posed to be. People have to die

sometime, I know. But not likethat. Not thirteen years old and

full of vigor. It wasn’t—it wasn’t

something I cared to thinkabout anymore. All the same Ihad tears in my eyes and a

sneer on my lips as I mounted

that saddle on the gate.

And now it was back on Willow

I made my way over to her andchecked it out. It was a slowprocess, you understand. I’d

take a few steps in her direc-tion, keeping my distance but

watching her to see if she hadany new marks. My mind kept

telling me that someone’d beenout here, maybe even took Wil-

low for a ride or two without

permission. The question there

was why bring her back? I don’tknow many horse rustlers--none

in fact--but I don’t reckon manywould steal a horse only to re-

turn her to her stable.

That is, unless they were just

about to do it when I got there.

That thought made me rigid ina heartbeat. I jerked around like

a deer sensing a predator. Sud-denly, it made perfect sense.The saddle was on, but not thebit and bridle. Whoever did the

dressing got interrupted, by aman with no greater ambitionthan fixing a broken door of all

things. That feeling of being

watched came over me like aheavy storm. Real or imagined,

it came on something fierce,and for that moment there wasno doubt in my mind.

“Who’s there?” I called out. Itwas a greenhorn thing to do,

but I couldn’t help it. “Come on,now. Show yourself.”

I waited with one ear cocked.

Seems like I heard every strandof hay bristling in the wind. I

couldn’t hear movement--nothing that would give cre-

dence to my fear. No boots slid-ing through grass. No whisper-ing breath. Just me and myheart hammering away in my

veins.

Then something did move, andI yelped before I could pull it

back. The breeze kicked up.

Kicked up fast it did. Drifts of hay took flight around me. Duststreamed through the stable in

a torrent. And yet even with all

the commotion, I noticed some-thing that made my neck hairs

stand on end.

The trees next to the stablewere still and lifeless. The wind

was only blustering inside the

stable.

“Who’s there?” I yelled, pray-

ing someone would answer.



13

Someone did. I don’t know if

you’ll believe that, but someone

did indeed.

I heard a laugh—just a sliver

of one. It was on the wind andthen gone again before my ears

could really get a hold of it. Butonce I heard those sparkling

chimes, I knew. “Annette?” My voice came out

strange, like a person wakingup. “Annette, is that you?”

The wind went still just like

that. Like someone flicked it off.I stood there, frozen in myboots, waiting—no, praying I’d

hear her again. The seconds

went by. Bits of hay glided pastmy trembling eyes, headingback to the stable floor. Then

Willow whinnied, and I turnedand looked at her. She was bob-bing in her pen, her head sway-

ing excitedly. And it wasn’t un-

settled excitement, either. Wil-low was being playful, as if anold friend had popped in for a

visit. I gazed at her, realizing

she was probably right. Some-one had been here, someonewho knew this old stable a

whole lot better than I did.

I looked up at the tin roof, myvision fogging up. “I love you,sweetie,” I said, maybe knowing

that if anyone else had beenwatching, they would’ve thought

me crazy. I couldn’t have cared

if they did.

That night, I spent more time

than usual inside the house. Irealized I had been a fool to

stay out so much. There was so

much of her inside. I took big,

long whiffs and smelled herclean skin. I went in her room

and held the wooden horses I

had carved for her years ago. Isaw drawings on the wall, some

made less than a month before.

They were all pictures of treesand flowers—and Willow, of course. Lots and lots of Willow.

Maybe I had known it before,

but her skill with a pencil sud-

denly seemed amazing to me.

My Annette had real talent. Iheld one particular picture forwhat must’ve been an hour. I

stared at it the whole time with

a goofy grin on my face. It wasa drawing of the two of us—her

on Willow and me on Ritzy, and

she had gotten everything right.The colors were spot on. Thelines of the horses’ faces were

straight out of real life. If she’d

done any flubbing it all, it wasthat she made me more hand-

some than I could rightly claim.

As I lit out to dreaming, I still

had that picture in my hand. A

spark of hope crackled inside,and I had a feeling maybe

thing’s weren’t as drastic as I

first figured. Maybe Annettewasn’t on some far-off perch,twiddling her thumbs. Maybe

she was closer. Maybe she

never really left at all.

The next morning only con-firmed it. I woke to the sound of

horseshoes clumping. Stagger-ing to the window I saw Willow,this time with bit, bridle, and

saddle. She was out on the

south pasture, trotting merrily.

To the average eye she seemedto be running alone. But I knew

better. Annette was with her.She had led the horse from thestable to the field, and now she

was hitting the breeze, giving

Willow a better leg-stretch thanshe’d had in weeks. I went outon the porch and watched for

most of the morning. Any otherbusy work I had planned be-came a distant second to watch-

ing Willow prance across the

horizon. And something oc-curred to me that hadn’t ‘tilthen. I hadn’t been the only one

to lose a loved one with An-nette’s passing. Willow had losther best friend, too, and had

likely suffered greatly for it. I

was too caught up in my ownworries to notice.

But now—now she galloped

through the high grass, and my

heart galloped right along withher.

The rest of the day went bylike any other—that is to say,

any other before Annette’sdeath. I went about my work

with confidence and a gleam inmy eye, knowing come tomor-

row Willow’d be out running

again, and Annette would bethere, too. She’d always be

there, keeping me company inher special way. Maybe it was a

little different now, but in thebiggest ways it was like it’d al-

ways been. Everything on the

by and by. Come tomorrow, I’dbe a man once again content

with life.

Then tomorrow came, and Ifound out how wrong I was.

I went to the stable early that

morning. I didn’t know if An-nette would let me watch herdress Willow—didn’t even know

if it was possible to watch—but I

figured it couldn’t hurt to try.The sun was barely winking overthe spruces, and I had a bounce

in my step that might’ve comestraight from Willow. I swungopen the one-hinged stall door,

called out a loud good morning

to Willow, then got the fright of my life.

A young woman stood in my

stable, and she was screaming.

I don’t like to admit it, but for

a moment I would’ve sworn upand down that it was Annette

standing there. The sun was be-

hind her, and her hair was glow-

ing strawberry blond like An-nette’s. She had a bridle in her

hand, too, and it didn’t take

much guessing to know it wasWillow’s.

But then the moment passed,

I blinked, and realized it wasMelissa Parcher. I had startledher with my swift entrance. The



14

poor girl was trembling all over,

and I could tell from the look inher eyes she thought she was in

trouble. I raised my hands tocalm her, but I didn’t speak

right away. I couldn’t. I wasstunned speechless. My heart

felt like it was teetering on a

barbed wire fence. Had it been

Melissa I’d interrupted the otherday? Had it been Melissa who letWillow into the south pasture?

These were questions I was cer-tain I didn’t want answered. But

they were about to be, whether

I wanted it or not.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, mymouth drier than a desert can-

yon. “I ain’t out to hurt ya.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl spouted.

“I know I’m not sposed to behere. I couldn’t stay away any-more. I had to come see for my-self.”

I nodded, finding it hard to

make my vocal cords work. Fi-nally I said, “Come on. I’ll make

you some breakfast.”

She came back to the housewith me. As I started working

on breakfast she sat down atthe table, in the same spot I

usually waited when Annettemade dinner. I got right to it,frying up eggs and bacon andflapjacks. Somewhere in the

darker regions of my brain I

knew the girl would never eatthis much, but it wasn’t about

Melissa’s hunger. I was back to

doing busy work. I was drawingfrom that well of purpose again.And it didn’t surprise me to see

it was almost dry. In fact, I

wasn’t sure it would last out theday.

“My pa didn’t want me coming

out,” Melissa said, her voice sosmall it barely registered overthe eggs popping in my frying

pan. “He said I had no businessout here anymore. He said he’dwallop me good if I disobeyed.You won’t tell him, will ya?”

“No,” I said, keeping my eyes

on the eggs. “We’ll keep it be-tween us.”

“Thank you, sir.” Melissa

stared at her lap the same way Iwas staring at the frying pan. “Ihad to come see. I heard she

died, but it didn’t seem possible.

Ann don’t seem like the type of person that can be killed. It’s

like she’s too strong for that.”

My teeth gritted hard, and I wasglad my back was to her. I knewthen. I did blame God. I blamed

Him completely. The surge of

anger that came with that reali-zation made my hands clenchup and start shaking.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my voicehollow. “I know what you mean.

This ain’t the way it’s supposedto be.”

“I thought my pa only knocked

the wind out of her was all.”

That comment made it out of

her without a hitch. Yet the mo-

ment I heard it my lungs seizedup as if full of gravel. I turned

around slowly, taking breaths sosmall they wouldn’t have blown

a feather off a mountainside.

“What?”

Melissa looked at me, saw thehardness in my eyes and stiff-ened. “It was an accident,” she

said. “Me and Ann was riding

the backwoods at my place. Andwe ran into him by accident.Usually, I know where not to go.

But he moved his shinin’ jugswithout telling me. We barreledin there, knocking his ale over

and spilling it everywhere.”

She gulped. Tears stood in hereyes. Part of her didn’t want to

finish the story. But I think

Melissa knew she’d really comehere for one reason, and thiswas it. She wanted me to know.

Couldn’t stomach holding it in-

side anymore. It was too big forsuch a little girl. She went on.

“Pa was there, of course. He’d

been napping on his hammock.And when we barged in he

jumped up, thinking we werepeople out to get him or some-

thing. He grabbed his rifle, butdidn’t have time to aim. Ann

was already too close. So he

swung out at her, and the barrel

caught Annette in the chest.She came down like a sack of flour.” Melissa sobbed. “Then Pa

pulled me down off my horse.He yelled at me and slapped

me, then made me go back to

the house. I kept trying to seewhat happened to Ann, but shewas back behind a bush, and Pa

wasn’t letting me get any closer.

I took off for the house, thinkinghe was gonna send her home. I

didn’t know she was dead. Ipromise I never…” She broke off again as her chin set to trem-bling.

“I know you didn’t, Melissa.” As I stared at her tear-streakedface I realized the tears were

gone from my eyes. They had

shored up, replaced by some-thing else, something a mitechillier.

Melissa struggled to get a hold

of herself. “So anyway,” shesaid, almost whispering. “These

last few weeks I’ve been shut

up inside the house. Like I said,he’d wallop me good if he knew

I were here. He only let me

leave because we ran out of food. The garden ain’t producednothing for a spell, and after

mama left there was no one left

to go to the store. So he sentme, and that’s where I was

headed. I kinda changed course

without meaning to. One mo-ment I was on the road to town,the next I was running my fin-

gers over Willow’s bridle.” She

dabbed her eyes with her sleeveas she turned to the window. “I

never knew how to put on a bri-dle right until Annette showed

me how.”



15

She passed into silence, letting

her memories carry her on. I

watched her, feeling a hot brickin my gut. Finally I looked backat the burnt eggs and took them

off the stove. I turned the

burner off and walked out of thekitchen, into my room. When I

came out I had my coat and hat

on, and Melissa was now theone watching me. “Where yougoing?” she asked.

“To the store,” I said, not

looking at her. “I’ll be backsoon. Don’t go nowhere.”

I stepped outside and headedfor the stable. I felt Melissa’s

nervous gaze on my back, morespecifically on the thing in myright hand, but I paid her no

mind. I had something to do,and anything else--breakfast, arickety stable door, even the BigMan Himself--was beyond my

ability to care. Somewhere in-

side I knew I was drawing upthe last bucket from that well of purpose, but that was fine by

me. This last bit of busy workdwarfed everything that hadcome before. I wouldn’t need

purpose by the day’s end. I only

needed what I already had in

my hand.

My scattershot rifle.

I cinched Willow to the frontrailing of the Parchers’ front

porch (I almost took Ritzy, but

then decided Willow deserved tobe here for this, too. We both

had a score to settle on that ac-count). From somewhere inside

that gray box of a house DanielParcher called out in a boorish

voice.

“Melissa, get your rump in

here! You done been too long,

and I’m starving!”

I didn’t respond, at least not

with words. I simply raised my

rifle in the direction of the frontwindow and pulled the trigger. Acrack like an earthquake rum-

bled the air as the window and a

good bit of the wall around it

blew to pieces. The man insidelet out a scream, one I was gladto hear. There would soon be

more.

I moved onto the porch at aswift clip, my boots clicking

heavy on the floorboards. Oneof those boots came up fast and

kicked the front door, and it

opened right up. Parcher hadn’tlocked it today. Didn’t know he

would need to. At any rate, Imoseyed on in, laying eyes on a

house more damaged and cha-otic than anything my rifle

could’ve done. Soiled clothes

hung over the furniture. Empty jugs were scattered about the

floor. Old vomit was caked on

the curtains, as if he had triedto make it to the window in timeand failed. I felt a fresh surge of

anger as I imagined Melissa liv-

ing in this squalor, and it got memoving again.

I heard him in the back room,

scrambling like a wolf in a henhouse. When I kicked in thedoor he let out a scream worthy

of a choirgirl. He had been

crawling through a window half

his size, but now he spunaround, stiff with fear. I took a

moment to get the measure of him and let him get the meas-ure of me. It’d been a good two

years since I’d seen Daniel

Parcher, and I noticed the dif-ference immediately. He wasthinner now—bonier, too. His

pasty skin hung on his face likea loose blanket. His light brownhair had no conceivable order. It

went where it went. His eyes

were the most recognizable fea-ture on him. I had seen thoseeyes in my shaving mirror over

the past month. They weredead, barony eyes.

They were filled with the slow

death.

“You took my daughter from

me,” I said, and as much as my

heart was racing, it was amaz-

ing how steady my voicesounded.Daniel Parcher said nothing. He

stared at me with those eyes,

knowing what was about to hap-pen. Maybe even thankful for it.

When the slow death has you, a

quick release starts to lookgood. I raised my rifle chest-level.

“You know you’ve got this

coming.”

“I know,” he said balefully. “Ihad it coming a long time.”

My finger nestled around the

trigger, done with the chatting.I had one purpose left in mysoul and I was bound to it.

Daniel Parcher knew it, becausehe closed his eyes and frownedmournfully. Dusty silver tears

ran down his cheeks. Maybe he

was grieving about the loss of his life, but I had a notion thathe’d been grieving over that for

a long time. My eyes narrowed

and my jaw stuck out.

The seconds passed.

Wind kicked up outside. Some-

where off in the woods, a dogbarked eagerly.

More seconds passed.

Slowly, quietly, I realized

something. I wasn’t born to this.I was a granger like my pa andhis pa before him. We spent our

days shepherding animals,keeping ‘em healthy, helpingnew ones into the world, tend-ing to their food, broaching their

trust, cleaning their coats, and

letting them live. Livestock wasour trade. Life was our trade—

and when you spend all your

days around life, the thought of death ain’t in your blood. TheBig Man most assuredly knows

what I’m talking about.

I lowered my rifle, my stom-ach clenching something fierce.



16

A tear slid down my cheek, but I

barely even noticed. Parcheropened one eye, staring at me,

somehow even more afraid thanbefore. He thought I was gonna

make this slow and painful. Icould see it in that one quiver-

ing eye.

I cleared my throat. “Yourdaughter will not be coming

home…She’s bunkin’ at my

place now.” I propped the rifleon my shoulder, and he allowedhis other eye to open. “If you

have a problem with that, you

and I can augur about it at anytime and place you deem fit…I’llbe waiting.”

Somehow my feet got movingand took me out of that room. A

whimpering echo followed me, acoughing, pathetic thing thatfilled me with disgust. He wastrying to make words. As I

passed through the front door

he got something out.

“You were sposed to kill me,”

he said, sounding cheated.

I looked back and conjured upa stony smile. “Boy, you’re al-

ready dead. Your body justdon’t realize it.”

That was the last thing I ever

said to Daniel Parcher. It turnedout my words were true. Twomonths later the sheriff stepped

into the same house (to find outwhy Melissa was staying withme, ironically) and found Daniel

Parcher’s decaying corpse hud-

dled under the window, oneskeletal hand wrapped around amoonshine jug’s handle. “One

too many benders,” the sheriff

told me solemnly, but I knewbetter. The slow death got him,

plain and simple.

But that was still in the future.At the moment, walking out of

the Parcher shack, I only

wanted to untie Willow and re-move myself from that con-demned land. I climbed on Wil-

low and gigged her, and a misty

rain began to fall. I rode intothe forest with a cool chill on my

face. Water droplets like pearlscollected on every leaf and

flower, and it seemed like I no-ticed each one, noticed the

beauty of it all.

During that ride I noticedsomething else, too, but I could-

n’t tell you precisely when I no-

ticed it. For a spell it was Willowand I cutting through the brush.And then somewhere along the

way we added a member to our

party. I knew because I felt it—in the form of small handswrapped around my sides and a

small head nestled against myback. I felt her against me, andbefore I knew it the tears were

flowing. I kept looking forwardall the same. Part of me knew, Ithink, that this was a one-timedeal. By the time we reached

the house she’d be gone again.So I slowed Willow’s pace,closed my eyes, and tried to sa-

vor the feeling.

Behind me, I heard a softwhisper. “You’re a good man,

Pa—one of the best, I reckon.”

THE END

Ben Larkin



17

What is

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I was tired of bland post-and-read websites. CC was going to be warm, inviting andcomfortable. I wanted it to feel more like a home than a website.

The name Cold Coffee was derived from good conversations, warm chats betweengood friends where the coffee goes cold before it’s ever finished. Communication was

key to creating the environment I was looking for. Members had to be able to commu-nicate in real time. CC members enjoy two chat rooms, one that is exclusive to CC

members and another that is shared with other writer communities.

Aside from the warm colors and intimacy, members also enjoy the same aspects

they liked in other writing communities. They can post work not only in blogs or on dis-cussion boards but also in groups dedicated to specific types of writing.

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display their art enjoy the Cold Coffee Bookstore - a free boutique where members canupload their book cover, blurbs and links to where their book can be purchased.

In an effort to offer the promising voices in the community a better opportunity

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Of course if you’re reading this, there is a good chance you’re reading it in CC’s

exclusive voice, Cold Coffee Magazine. Members of the CC community take pride inknowing they have a publication that caters only to them. In each issue, CCM publishes

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If you’re looking for a warm, interactive writing community that offers the sameamenities other websites do, then Cold Coffee might be your home away from home.

The cost of membership is free; the friendships are priceless. What’s in your cup?

www.coldcoffee.ning.com

David Price



18

Plagiarism

This is an honest article for

any who may have questions orare not sure what plagiarism

is. Let’s face it, we writers havea silent code amongst ourselves

in this and other writer’s com-munities, groups, clubs, and or-

ganizations, etc., and that

is: Don’t plagiarize my work.

Most of us don’t feel the need

to verbalize it since, as I said,there is a silent agreement, but

there are those who feel the

need to post warnings on theirwork, blogs or websites telling

would-be word thieves what willhappen to them and their vari-

ous body parts if it is discoveredthat their work has been sto-

len. The reason is simple -

there is a very real fear of beingplagiarized.

So the question arises: what

exactly is plagiarism? Manyhave opinions about what itmeans, and I could easily give

you a list of some of those, but

for the sake of not trying to con-fuse anyone or take up too

much of your time with this arti-cle, here is what plagiarism ac-tually is:

“Plagiarism is the practice of claiming or implying original au-thorship of (or incorporating

material from) someone else's

written or creative work, inwhole or in part, into one's own

without adequate acknowledge-ment. Unlike cases of forgery, in

which the authenticity of thewriting, document, or some

other kind of object itself is in

question, plagiarism is con-cerned with the issue of false

attribution.”

Notice I used quotation

marks? That’s because that

statement is not mine, but

quoted from another source;that source to be exact is

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plagiarism.

Here’s some more from thatsame webpage (mentioning that

this is from another source and

then giving that source’s infor-mation is called a “citation”):

“Within academia, plagiarismby students, professors, or re-searchers is considered aca-demic dishonesty or academic

fraud and offenders are subjectto academic censure. In journal-ism, plagiarism is considered a

breach of journalistic ethics, and

reporters caught plagiarizingtypically face disciplinary meas-

ures ranging from suspension totermination. Some individualscaught plagiarizing in academicor journalistic contexts claim

that they plagiarized uninten-

tionally, by failing to includequotations or give the appropri-ate citation. While plagiarism in

scholarship and journalism hasa centuries-old history, the de-velopment of the Internet,

where articles appear as elec-

tronic text, has made the physi-

cal act of copying the work of others much easier, simply by

copying and pasting text from

one web page to another.”

*The italics in the above para-

graph were added by me for

emphasis.I would also like to add that

you risk being forever black-

listed, which means that you will

not be able to publish your

work. How is that possible you

ask? Because publishers andeditors share information like

this amongst themselves. So if

one of them catches you giving

yourself credit for something

that someone else has written,

they are going to make it their

business to tell others about it.

Why you may ask? Because pla-

giarism is considered to be the

lowest thing one writer can do

to another. But more impor-

tantly for the publication, they

risk being sued by the original

author if they publish plagia-

rized material and worse than

that, they risk being blacklisted

themselves. And in a businesswhere reputation is everything,

that is everything. Besides be-

ing extremely unprofessional on

the part of the writer, it breeds

an atmosphere of distrust, since

when it is discovered, no one is

going to feel able to trust that

you won’t do it again.

Some may argue that thereare no original ideas anymoreand my opinion of such an argu-

ment is that whoever thinks that

is probably someone I shouldwatch out for, because there areoriginal ideas and ways of tak-

ing something such as a lovestory and putting your own par-ticular stamp on it.

Examples:

Anne Rice took the age-old

story of the vampire andmade it uniquely her own.

How age-old is it? Well ac-cording to the information

found here: http://

www.chebucto.ns.ca/~vampire/vhist.html, vam-pire myths go back thou-

sands of years. So even

Bram Stoker, the author of “Dracula,” which was pub-lished in 1897, was borrow-

ing the idea for his bookfrom a legend. Did he pla-giarize it? No, and neither

did Anne Rice.

“Star Wars,” and “Lord of theRings,” along with quite a few

other books borrow from thesome of the oldest themes inwriting: the hero on a quest, the



19

romantic couple, the wizard, the

dark lord, etc. But each of

these stories takes those famil-iar themes and then does some-thing completely different with

them. If you want to read more

about these other archetypes inliterature, and also some basic

literary elements, there’s more

information about them here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/

Arche-type#Archetypes_in_literature

http://

www.orangeusd.k12.ca.us/yorba/literary_elements.htm

I’m sure that after readingthese lists you might be able to

think of other examples in lit-

erature and movies that also fitthose ideas. I’m pretty sureeach one of us could come up

with something uniquely our

own using this page as a guideand create something that could

only come from our imagina-

tions and abilities.

But the bottom line is still this:

There is no reason why you oranyone else who claims to be awriter can’t do the same thing.Which of course is what any

writer who has the capacity andthe imagination to write shouldbe able to do. If you still want

to argue that there are no origi-

nal ideas and use that as an ex-cuse to steal work and ideasthat aren’t your own, then per-

haps writing isn’t the field foryou. Seriously. Try something

else.

So the next time you want to

quote a song or words from a

movie or borrow anything from

another writer’s work, give the

original author, composer,

movie or whatever it is their

due. Use quotation marks,

mention the author’s name, use

citations, but for God’s sake,

don’t pretend that it’s your own

original work. For those of us

who are poets and fiction writ-

ers, the same goes for you,

too. We aren’t immune from

being blacklisted and publically

heralded as thieves.

I hope now it’s clear what pla-giarism is, so for those who

weren’t sure, you now have anexplanation and to those of whoyou are doing it, you have awarning. You will be found out,

because sooner or later thesekinds of things are always foundout. You will ruin your reputa-

tion and any hopes of having awriting career of any kind. So

you may want to ask yourself afew questions:

1. Is the momentary attention

that I’m receiving really worth

losing my reputation as not onlya writer, but also an honest hu-man being, really worth it?

2. Do I really want a writing

career, which means not onlythat I’m a serious writer, but

also that I’m willing to live up tostandards of journalistic profes-

sionalism?

3. Why am I doing this in the

first place? If I’m a creative per-son then surely I must be able

to come up with ideas of myown which come from me, my

experiences, my abilities andmy craft.

In the end, it’s up to each oneof us to decide what we want to

do. Ignorance isn’t an excuse -there is no excuse for plagiariz-ing someone else’s work.

Rachel Blackbirdsong



20



21

Interview With

Brian Porter

What goes through the mind of a serial killer? What makes them tick? When RachelBrower from Cold Coffee Magazine set out to find the answer to these and other ques-

tions,Brian’s book, A Study in Red, is a magnificent journey into the fictionalized accounts

of world famous serial killer, Jack the Ripper. Rachel recently sat down to find out moreabout Brian and what readers might dare to find within the pages of his novel.

CCM: Hi Brian, Welcome To Cold Coffee Magazine. Thank you for taking the time to join us and talk about your success.

BP: Hello Rachel, thank you for the opportunity.

CCM: Some congratulations are definitely in order. From winning cover designs to new publishing con-tracts and now a movie deal with Thunderball Films, I guess you have every reason to be, as you said,

“Over the moon.”

BP: Definitely. I’m certainly grateful and if you will allow, have some exciting, ‘Hot off the press,’ news. ‘A Study in Red’ recently made top honors in ‘The Predators & Editors Best Thriller of 2008’ readers poll,and subject to scrutiny will soon have another award added to its growing list of accolades.

CCM: So how did ‘A Study in Red’ get picked for a film? Did you submit the manuscript or did your agentset it up?

BP: To be honest, the whole thing came as very big surprise to me. Shortly before Christmas, I receivedan email from Thunderball Films to say that they were interested in obtaining the Motion Picture/TVrights to my book, which they had been tracking for some time and felt would make a successful transi-

tion from book to screen.

CCM: What are negotiations like bringing a book to film?

BP: I’m not sure. I would guess every situation is different. My literary agent was unavailable so I en-tered into negotiations with the Executive Producer of Thunderball alone. I must have asked him a thou-sand questions, all of which he patiently and professionally provided the answers to. After three days of

almost non-stop e-mails I received a draft agreement. Thunderball is currently producingan early trailer to help promote the film and the book.

CCM: Your book is fantastic but it takes more than being a good writer to become commercially success-

ful. Competition for publishing contracts is fierce and as a result, self-publishing is on the rise. That beingsaid, how much of your success can be attributed to your tireless self-promotion and would you agreethat being proficient at self-promoting is a much needed skill?

BP: Self-publishing is an option for many writers but for me being traditionally published was important.That’s why it was very exciting when Double Dragon Publishing picked up ‘A Study in Red’.

I do agree that self-promotion is a vital element in a modern-day author’s portfolio of skills.

Most small publishers simply don’t have the advertising and promotional budgets of the larger publish-



22

ing houses and it is generally left up to the author to promote their work. I promoted my book to the

best of my abilities and doing so has brought a great deal of success to the book.I’ve looked for any and every opportunity to spread the word about my book and from time to time have

encountered animosity for such self-promotion but that has not dissuaded me from my path. Thankfully,the vast majority of people have been only too pleased to hear and share in the good news.My advice to

any author, either traditionally or self-published is, “Promote, promote, promote!”

CCM: I don’t think anyone would argue that part of the reason your book shares such high visibility is a

direct result of your promotion work. What specifics can you share with other writers that might point

them in the right direction?

BP: For one, become a member of any organization that is concerned with the subject matter of your

book. Doing this will increase the potential readership and fan base for your work.

Writers must display a professional attitude toward their work and the marketing side of the business. I

learned to treat myself as a ‘product’ as much as the book. In effect I became a ‘brand’ and worked hardto make the name of the book synonymous with mine. When people think of Brian Porter, hopefully theythink of ‘A Study in Red.’

I make sure that when anyone contacts me about the book or my work they receive a reply! So manypeople tend to forget the personal touch in marketing their work. I don’t care how many emails fill my

inbox. If someone has taken the time to ask me a question or just to say hello, that they’ve enjoyed thebook, they get a reply. Writers who build a relationship with their readers unquestionably build a strongfan base for their books.

CCM: One of the things that makes ‘A Study in Red’ so fascinating is that the story is chockfull of inter-

esting facts. How much time did you invest in research for this book?

BP: The truth is that I first became interested in the Jack the Ripper killings over 35 years ago and I have

studied the case ever since. Those thirty-five years of research have gone into the creation of ‘A Study inRed’. I spent nearly six months of nonstop reading and re-reading of my research material before com-mencing the book.

CCM: Are you involved in your book’s conversion from novel to screenplay and if so what challenges as a

writer does that bring?

BP: Thunderball Films intends to use me as a consultant. What exactly that means, I don’t know, butwhatever my role, I’m sure it will present me with new challenges. I hope they employ a screenplaywriter who sticks to the essence of the book. After all, it was the storyline that they wanted in the first

place.

CCM: Editing can be a chore for even a short story. To edit an entire novel must have seemed like amonumental task. How difficult was it to edit your book?

BP: I was relieved of the task of editing by my publisher. I had, however, self-edited the book twice andthen had it proofread twice before the manuscript reached the publishers. It took almost as long to do

that as it did to write the book (well not quite). The editor from the publishing house was superb and

worked closely with me in fine-tuning the final manuscript.

CCM: Is it true that this book was originally based on a poem of yours by the same name?

BP: Yes, Rachel, that’s true. A few years ago I wrote a poem that I entitled ‘A Study in Red (An insightinto the mind of The Whitechapel Murderer).’ I tried to place myself inside the mind of Jack the Ripperand wrote the poem as though in his own words. When a publishing friend of mine read it he said it was

so intense and powerful that if he ever wrote a psychological thriller he would love to use that poem ashis introduction to the book. Of course, he never got the chance, because his remark actually kick-



23

started my novel into being, and that poem now forms a part of the Ripper’s fictional journal in the

novel.

CCM: One of the appealing aspects of this book is the nonfiction feel about it. Did you lose any sleep orhave nightmares as the book took shape?

BP: Actually, I did. At times I was so immersed in the world and the characters I’d created that I woulddream of the scenes in the book as though they were happening to me. I had a few nightmares and

also a few good ideas as a result of those dreams. My wife was often worried that I was spending too

much time on the computer as I became totally obsessed with finishing the book, much as the centralcharacter in the novel becomes obsessed with completing his reading of the journal. It’s probably trueto say that ‘A Study in Red’ completely took over my life during the time spent in creating it.

CCM: With all you’ve learned in researching and writing this book do you think you know who JTR reallywas?

BP: I’ve had my own theory as to whom Jack the Ripper really was for some years. Having said that,

my personal ‘prime suspect’ wouldn’t have fit into the character I wrote for my fictional Ripper. I usedmy second ‘favorite’ suspect as my book model Jack. As no one knows who the Ripper was, it’s quite

possible that any of my suspects could have been Jack.

I’d like to think I know who he was, but then that is the dream of every Ripperologist and there are somany suspects that it’s unlikely we’ll ever know the truth.

CCM: Is Jack finally out of your system or is there more of his story to be told?

BP: I don’t think that Jack the Ripper will ever be totally out of my system. In fact, I’ve almost com-pleted a sequel to ‘A Study in Red’. ‘Legacy of the Ripper’ should be finished in a couple of months and

Double Dragon Publishing has already offered a contract for its publication. It should appear later this

year I hope.

CCM: Do you have a favorite writer or book?

BP: If I had to narrow it down, I’d say that I have two favorite writers. Firstly, Tess Gerritsen, whose

medical thrillers, ‘The Surgeon’ and ‘The Apprentice’, are second to none. She was also graciousenough to bestow me with encouragement and good wishes while I was writing ‘A Study in Red.’ In fact

she gave me permission to place her message on the cover of the book, an act that served to make meeven more appreciative of her work.

Secondly, I have to say that I love the work of Jeffery Deaver, who for me is the ‘Master of Misdirec-

tion’. His books are awesome and again he took the time, when I contacted him, to wish me luck andsuccess with the book. Both he and Tess appear in the acknowledgements of the book.

CCM: You’ve released three newer books: The Nemesis Cell, Purple Death and Pestilence. Do you feel that any of these books

will see the same success ‘A Study in Red’ has?

BP: Yes. In fact, The Nemesis Cell was released as an e-book by Stonehedge Publishing and will soon

appear in paperback from 4RV Publishing LLC. Both Purple Death and Pestilence will also be publishedin paperback by 4RV, and Pestilence has just received an absolutely awesome advance review, whichI’ve included here. I sincerely hope they will emulate ‘A Study in Red’ success. My other e-book re-

leases include ‘Avenue of the Dead’, ‘A Binary Convergence’ and ‘Dracula Doesn’t Live Here Anymore’.

CCM: In relation to writing, do you have any special or unique habits that help you find your muse?

BP: I would have to say no to that one. My mind is in a constant ferment, with ideas and plot scenarios

constantly popping into my head, which is probably why I have four novels on the go at the same time!



24

CCM: The party’s over, the band has gone home and aside from some lasting memories, the cleaning

crew is all that’s left from your recent triumphs. What’s next? Tell your growing fan base what they canlook forward to from Brian Porter.

BP: It’s exciting, really. I’ve already mentioned Pestilence and Purple Death, coming soon from 4RV Pub-

lishing. They will also be releasing more of my work in the next two years, with Glastonbury, and a pa-perback version of ‘Avenue of the Dead’ also under contract to them. Of course I hope to see the sequel

to ‘A Study in Red’, ‘Legacy of the Ripper’ appearing in print as well.

I should also mention that I write children’s and young adult works, under the pen name Harry Porter.Once again coming from RV Publishing, ‘Harry Porter’s Dog Tales’ will tell the remarkable survival stories

of the pack of rescued dogs that are my constant companions. The first of these, ‘Tilly’s Tale’ will be re-

leased in May 2009, a month after ‘Alistair the Alligator’, a short illustrated story book for younger chil-dren.

CCM: In closing, what words of advice do you have for the ambitious and hopeful writers of the world?

BP: Rachel, the only advice I would give to any aspiring writer out there is to never, ever lose your self-

belief. If a writer doesn’t believe in his/her own work, it’s a sure thing that it will be hard to find anyone

else who does. Rejections may flow into the letterbox like confetti, but should be treated as occupationalhazards, and not taken to heart.

If you’re lucky enough to find a publisher who believes in you and wants to work with you, then do your

bit by helping to promote and market yourself to the best of your ability. Many fellow writers have said tome “I’ve no idea how to sell myself,” and yet there are so many simple ways to go about it. All it takes,

like writing a book, is a little research and application.

Nothing is going to come easily in the cutthroat world of publishing, and any author who wants to ‘makeit’ has to be prepared to push themselves to the limit in order to get their name ‘out there’.

*****

Cold Coffee would like to thank Brian Porter for his time and valued insights. His work ethic serves as a

great example to all writers who hope to see similar success.

Rachel Brower, for Cold Coffee Magazine, conducted this interview. Editing provided by ‘The Perfection-ists’



25



26

So I Write

The keyboard sits in front of meWaiting for the words that will be;

Glimpses of hidden parts of meFeelings and logic that disagree.

Sleep eludes me in the night And so I write, so I write.

Pondering things that don't make sense

Clouds of confusion thick and dense A need for understanding so intenseMy only salvation to abandon pretense

The answer still not in my sight And so I write, so I write

Somewhere in my quest for clarity Somewhere in my quest for clarity

If approached with pure sincerity I begin to reconcile the disparity

Acceptance of the irregularity

Only then can I see the light So I write, so I write.

Cold Coffee Magazine Featured Writer

Candice Geary Candice Geary Candice Geary Candice Geary Artist not a poet

He is a quiet man

doesn't say mucheven when

you ask him directly

deep and still in his thoughts

guards them

like a sentry

shows his love

with his handsbig calloused hands

cut and scraped

rough from work

with cherry and hickory that keep him company

in his wood shop.

Day after day,he silently retreats

to craft his giftsof love for her-

an artist not a poet,

too few words for that.

Glimpse

dew drops glistening

in morning sunentangled in a spider

web

creating fragilebeauty lasting only moments

my watchful eyes

glimpsebrief existence

unravel too soon

gone.



27

Kisimu

It is still with me

As if I brought it back in my luggage.

It lingersalmost like sadness

but this is different; An indescribable

longing to return.Homesickness for a place

Not my home.Or is it?

I have never been happier than I was

during my days in Kenya.

When I close my eyesI can drift back

on the breezeof a memory.

I see their faceslittle children's sunny faces

surrounding me

six deep.Music of their laughter

tinkling like tiny bellsso infectious in its charm;

my own laughter joins the happy chorus.

Each child lines upto shake my hand

and ask me questions:"Where do you live?"

"Did you fly on a plane?" "What is it like in America?"

"Do you know Obama? His father lived here."

"Can I touch your hair? It's so soft."

Little did I know

when we visited the museum in Kisumu

I would bethe most popular exhibit.

They followed mein a tight circle

eager to share with methe history of their culture

Showed me the snake exhibit Thought it was funny

I was afraid of snakes About to take a step

when I saw something

black and yellow in the grass.

I let out a surprised screamas I jumped over the snake.

All the children erupted in laughter as I looked back to realize

I had just saved myself from a garden hose.

I could have stayed there

playing with my new friendsbut their teacher called to them

The school field trip was over It was time to leave.

They will probably never know the incredible joy

they gave me that day or that I carry it

in my heart still.



28

Mind, Body, Soul The poet’s eyes can captivate; so soft and kind

are they.

His lips can craft the sweetest verse and lift your

soul away.His fingers weave seductive tales; in ink and fire

they weep.His mind is full of love and passion, intricate and

deep.

The eyes, however long they gaze into the starlit

night,

Enchant the soul forever when his lover holds himtight.

Down into the darkest depths, he sees you from

within, And savors all the secrets hidden deep beneath

your skin.

The lips can reach and touch the heart whenever he may speak,

But silent they caress it, leaving knees and eyelids

weak.Your skin beneath his lips is tender. Trembling, it

cries, And brings itself to life to know a wanderer sowise.

His fingers move with grace and fashion, inno-

cence and pride,But find themselves seductive in his lover’s sweet

confide.

So smooth, they wander through your hair and

feel your mortal form,Entrancing you and loving you as softly they per-

form.

His mind encompasses your whole and cherisheseach day.

The flesh, the eyes and innocence he loves in

every way.Your soul forever his, he holds you sweetly as you

sleep,

His body full of love and passion, intricate and deep.

Robert "Spindle" Beard

Dusk

Dusk settles through the land, And cool winds blow, soft but brisk.

Colors paint the soft white sand,

From blue, to red, to amethyst.

Birds embrace from evening flight,

And bring their melodies to end.Closing blooms prepare for night,Until the day again transcends.

A gentle mist greets the sky, And wisps so softly through the trees.

With the darkness now so nigh,

Daylight whispers final pleas.

Pleas to have another chance,

To let the land seem bright and new.

To watch the rivers’ graceful dance, And bless the seas with heavens hues.

The emeralds dance upon the seas, And softly float themselves away Red and turquoise bless the breeze As evening twilight fades away.

Robert "Spindle" Beard

Editors Choice

Poetry



29

This is how the horses screamed

We were chosen by a ceremony beyond our understanding picked from a field of uncertain poppies

swaying inside a marblemoment

perhaps the graphic innuendoes fell uncer-

tain from the bowl of the seraph

but I believed in himand I will tell you why;

he captivated me with the rule in the bend of

his wristseach time he pulled me up out of the sands

onto the waves

to spin strands out of sunlight and play cats cradle with me until the

wounds inside my body were just bruises without a memory to pon-

der

They locked up the wrong moment

when they bent low above my lips with their

whisperskissing my mystic oracle pulses;

there was a man in particular I remember

his eyes were the color of amaranth

and his mouth tasted like scornand his hands felt like clenched beauty

as they divided my corset to a lullaby

playing on the victriola down the hall and I remember him the most out of all the

monsters

because he never left me in the perfumed

silks of the night stayed until the dawn to oppress my flesh

with a songover his coffee and buttered rolls

as I watched him from beneath my lashesclenching my fists into the future.

I remember the horses screaminginside the epic night the manor was filled

with blazing company waltzing to candlelight Strauss melodies

the wolves stalking the edge of men plumped out with gold

and liqueur highs

nibbling the underside of a lady's alabaster chin

as she reclined in the music and drunken

laughter

delighted by the company of wolves who were in actuality quite something else

indeed;

I was the only one who heard the horses

above the music and the drunken blaze I remember seeking out old Enkielle's eyes

and he didn't move

and he didn't sound an alarm we both knew there was no point

when it was monsters like the ones ripping

through the night

who came at the will of the captivating shiver of my shoulders

I bent into that night like a naked arch of

back my hips against the bone balcony edge

wondering what color my sound would be

what light my fall would be

what sin would crawl out of the laurel leavesbraided around my head if I were to tip just slightly into the dawn

and scatter into the marble tiles below; the horse came screaming out of the mist

the wolf ate the darkness off my mouth withhis sentence of love

I flew through the flex of a moment turned

inside out into the futuremy silks like rose pleats

streaming past the dying and the blood inside the manor

as I fell across the sweat and heat and mus-

cle of the stallion to sooth the screaming horse below

with my thighs firm about his belly with my hands in the longing of his mane

with my body pushed deep into his sweat and carved inside his need

for the human girl with the evergreen eyes

That night

the horses screamed I became a monster

wounded

inside a glass of spiritual suicide; and so I simply became

the monster body of them all.

Victoriaseleneskydome



30

These Eyes

don't let

these eyes fool you,

for they've seen

a million wrongs...

and wept rightfully.

James K. Blaylock

I Didn’t Write

This For You

I didn’t write this for youIt was not my intention

That to you I dedicateThis writing of my inventionI did not aim to please you

With words I write here now I only did it because I wanted to

With or without you, anyhow You may not like my rhyming

You may not like its flow

I only write my way It’s the only way I know

I don’t do it for the glory I don’t do it for the art

I do it because it’s what I think

Or feel within my heart I know this may sound selfish

But it’s something that is mine And somewhere in these writ-

ings

The real me, you may find

No need for lies or falsenessOr any dishonesty

It’s just some words I write

With a truth that sets me freeI may not be poet

I may not be very good

I may be overlooked

Or misunderstood But still, I keep on going

Doing as I canDoes this make any sense to

you? Then maybe you understand.

James Takeo Panton

Wings of Pearl

hey there, being of obilvion,come take me far beyond...

or are you somewhat more,

with wings of pearl, I'd figure,

you were herefor higher purpose,

and as for us, we're just wast-ing time

on petty things, and viced in

shameful lust.

James K. Blaylock

The NeedleHums and Sings

And zips across the skinIt draws its lines across them

And marks them deep within A pattern is created

In flesh, it stands apart

Some have simple meaningsSome, deep within the heart

Steady, wincing, buzzingPulling, drawing blood

Colours sweat and glistenTrickle in their floods

Ringing, stinging, cutting

Marks and meanings I createEverywhere that I am drawn

I find this to be my fate Just a little picture

I place upon the skinNo mind to their own senses

Or to reasons there lie within

I just watch the needlesPuncture every pore

And turned what’s there into

something

That it will be no more.

James Takeo Panton

The Color of Roses

Love is a blackened rose

Once wilted, it never grows.Black hearts filled with deception.

Hard to tell what’s up from what’sdown.

A purple rose seems full of hope,But can meet doom at a mo-

ment’s spell.Loving it seems cruel and unreal

like a movie that’s still.

The heartache inside is unbeliev-

able, like an

Unsettled windstorm. Why can’t

it just get Done and be over with?

I am that midnight flower,

wilted to the world.I know I can never be a purple

rose.Gloom follows me to and fro.

Ready

To pour sorrow all down around me.

Love and roses go hand in hand.

It’s only the color they don’t un-derstand.

Dawn M. Olexa



31

Gravity’s Embrace

Navigating through traffic and aMorning thundershower,

listening to him explain

from his school book,

countless galaxies, stars,quasars, black hole..

Touchdown.The drop-off lane at

St. Michael's Elementary School

“Mercury is closestto the sun

but Venus is hotter”, he says.(I didn’t know that)

He hops out. I blow him a kiss.

He slams the door and

a family of rain dropssplatter the seat where he sat

moments ago describing

a shift in distant orbital

relationships. "Neptuneis farther out than Pluto now.”

(I didn’t know that, either)

He bursts through the rainwriggling into the shoulder

straps

of the backpack he will

jettisonupon entering the school’scavernous main hall.

Clouds separate like gently-

teased

white cotton candy andthe sun pushes pinpoints of lus-

ter

into a world glistening wet.

Wiper blades catch

the last of the rain and

hurl it from the windshieldin droplets that arc skyward

then fall toward the earth

like twinkling glass meteors

caught in gravity's embrace.

Dennis Fleming

That it hurts to hear

Such other than our minds

Taunting usPlaying with our fingers to touch

ourselves

How we do lust

Like roses and flowers yearn for water

And a tree for children called

leavesYet we do whisper

Like the wind whips against the

masts

Blowing them in their vast stateLife without lungs

Without brainBut just a cardiac organ

Fusing blood through our veinsLike words taunt our nerves

wherever we yearn

The minds that taunt give us

our divine desire.

Netti Mulima

Desire

The desire runs from our finger-tips

Only holding us to not speak our

words

Just hide them as tear behind our eyelids

Holding the last breath

As it burns to come out Crawl out in dire importance

The meek eyes looking with

thorns as eyelashesThey called us rose's people

Our blood red brilliance

White purity

Hold me as the rain penetratesthe bare skin of me

The flesh that holds those petals

together Desire at your feet

I crown you not the belief

But that they call us sins

Full of our immorality

It itches to remove that veil fromher face

Take that cloth from his eyesIt runs in our fingertips

But do not dare caress

For it is not implacable

To display such affectionOr such infatuationThe sudden thought that it means

not to be wrongBut of the sarcasm

Our words are being called

It stands with a stroke of livingWithout breathingLife without breath

Rose without petals

The veil is tornThe crown has been worn

And yet we the people are broken

Yearning for that desireLying in our minds

How they make us smirk

And yearning for that touch

That feel and caressSkin upon skin

The departure from our innocenceBut our rebellion

Ringing in our ears

Surfaces

Along a dirt path of subcon-

scious

I stumble alone between

weedsovergrown around these

dreams,tangled and unreleased.

They lie, fragile petals

torn beyond valid reasons,left simply to rot beneath

demented thorns, unforgiven

and stabbed anew with ugly

truth.

This love was pity, freed now

and glad to be forever gone.

A smooth patch of numbness

is just another wall;

narcotic echoes that block and camouflage the road .

Rachel Brower



32

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

O K

S

T O R

E

B O

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S

T O R

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33

Son Of My Soul By Debra Welch

An autobiographic journey through a life of neglectthat led to a vow to save a child’s life through adop-tion.

Fresh Frozen By Darden North

A young policeman and his tormented wife are granted

one last hope when they hear about a catalogue of hu-man egg donors.

The Making Of Tibias Ivory By Doug Jenkins

In the small town of Principle, everyone has a role,knows their place and is content for things to remainthe same…..idyllic.

The Tension Reliever By Dominique Watson

The Tension Reliever is a collection of poems, inspira-tional thoughts and short stories.

The Chosen Few By Matthew Simon

In an investigation that takes him through theneighborhoods of Boston, private investigator MaxLovely finds himself entangled in an expanding web.



34

Irretrievably Broken By Irma Fritz

This is a haunted, funny and heart breaking account of German ex-patriots, Nora, Ruth, and Bettina Alder.

For Love Of Teddy By Jo A. Fulkerson

When teenage drug dealers threaten his younger

brother, Teddy, Michael Kirkpatrick goes after them.

Beaufort Falls By Mari Sloan

A determined little ghost avenges her death, protectsher living children and finds her lost child in BeaufortFalls.

Pure Of Heart By A. D. Smith

A fabled story of two wrongs don't make a right. Whenthe son of a king is killed, the royal family seeks re-venge.

Nora’s Soul By Margay Justice

A woman who lost her faith in all things angelic withthe death of her brother, must learn to reconnect withher faith when a series of events test her beliefs.



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The Fallen By Alexander Quinn

The Apocalypse has been averted, but at great cost.One girl gave her life to save the world, but her soul

was cast into Hell.

Silent Scream By Yvonne Mason

Gerard Schaefer shattered the lives of the families of

these young girls and destroyed the faith of the publicin law enforcement.

Pit-Stop Grill By Ben Larkin

Welcome to Pit-Stop Grill, a roadside attraction alongArizona’s Route 66 where travelers kick up their feetwhile sipping a nice cup of joe.

The Rose Petal Murders By David Price

When rookie detective Mary Archer gets a break in acold case file, She follows the lead to Boston where shepicks up the trail of a young hit– man.

Chronicles Of The Undead By A. F. Stewart

This Vampire horror novella is written as the personal journals of Samuel, Edmund, and Charlotte Harrington.



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A Book Inside, How To Write, Publish, And SellYour Story By Carol Denbow Whether you’ve already written your book or have abook inside, putting it all together can seem like a

challenge unknown to most.

Living The Thin Life By Elle Meyer

Creative ways to maintain your weight for life, pro-

vides tips and stories about healthy eating.

The Gate, A Journey By J. M. DosLobos

The gate is the story of a man and his loving memo-ries of Rosa.

Let Freedom Ring By Ernie Johnson

Four Cheyenne Braves advance to warriors in theirtribe.

The Ezekiel Code By Gary Val Tenuta

2012 is coming...The clock is ticking...The code mustbe deciphered.



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cold coffee magazine issue 1

Documents